


Favored

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Centuries [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alloparenting, Alternate Universe - Ancient Historical Setting (B.C.), Eunuchs, Fucked-up Societal Norms, Group Sex, Harems, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage, King Stiles Stilinski, Mention of Castration, Multi, Polyfidelity, Slavery, Tokens, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-17 05:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13652664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: In which there is a king, a bisexual harem, tokens of affection, and an unspoken truth.





	1. Prologue

               Explaining his family to outsiders was a pointless venture. He had stopped trying. Inquirers were often left confused or offended, and ultimately, ignorant. Either they _couldn’t_ comprehend the idea, or they _wouldn’t._  

               The court downplayed his behavior as a hedonist’s pastime, a collector’s hobby. All great rulers harbored a notable peculiarity or some sort of sordid predilection. The harem, apparently, was Stiles’, and the courtiers were just grateful that it wasn’t irredeemably scandalous.

               His harem was unique—or _improper_ , as deemed by some—in that it housed men and women. To greater notoriety, all were concubines. No wives, for he had no intention of ever taking a queen, and virile, _functional_ males. Few stemmed from noble families while many came from pasts of ill repute, possessing no status, wealth, or respectable skills, let alone a prestigious lineage.

               Must he go on?

               Yet, he would not apologize for his private pursuits or be swayed from them. At the age of eighteen, his father’s death left him with a broken heart and an expansive empire, one that had been cultivated through decades of war and conquering expeditions. Ruling was a terrible privilege and an enormous sacrifice. He would allow himself this one—albeit, _significant_ —indulgence.    


	2. Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, lads/lasses, if you hover over the hyperlink-ed words, they'll give the English translation/description. 
> 
> Also, for those who find extensive narration and backstory daunting, there will be a healthy mix of dialogue in the last three chapters.

               Inevitably, Lydia established his harem.

               She began as a childhood infatuation that endured well into adolescence. A decade of one-sided idolization and worship on Stiles’ part that culminated in a passionate, revelatory night during their fifteenth year.

               Until then, he had never accepted her as _real_. Only after touching her, actually feeling her beneath his hands, did he recognize the disservice he had done her all those years, denying the full extent of her substance and complexity in favor of some idealized fantasy. With newfound perspective, he could acknowledge and appreciate her ugliness—her moments of pettiness, dismissiveness, and cruelty—and felt her equal, her _friend_ , for the first time.

               No longer was he consumed by the need to win her, _possess_ her, or to maintain the urgent, desperate courting of their youth. After their consummation, he stopped offering betrothals to her altogether, as he had done since the age of five. He loved her and desired her, and all the more incredibly, _she_ _him_ , and that was enough for both of them. _Lovers_ was merely a label tacked on to the end of their relationship, an afterthought. It did not define them. 

               From a young age, station forced them together, Stiles a royal and Lydia a noblewoman’s daughter. She attended banquets, court festivities, and royal events like all the other noble children, but their unique attachment to one another developed because of Natalie. Lydia’s mother served as a satrapy secretary, a position that required reporting to the king in person, unlike the satraps who mainly governed from their respective provinces. She often brought Lydia along to her meetings at the palace to see Stiles.

               Such visits continued until his father's death, when Lydia moved herself into the palace’s _andarūn_, resolved to drag him out of his grieving stupor. At that time, everyone still believed they would wed and further the royal line, so her addition to the household was welcomed, if not expected. 

               Lydia knew, without his telling. Not the details of his affliction, merely that an affliction existed in the first place. Stiles had been trying to survive the bone-deep agony of yet another parent’s death by avoiding it altogether, burying himself in his duties. Still, he had fallen prey to intermittent attacks of breathlessness, heart pounding and lightheaded, crushed beneath the immense legacy his father left behind and wondering how to perpetuate it.

               She discovered his fits, of course, during an impromptu and rather forbidden trip to his bedchamber one night. She smashed their lips together, using his shock to halt the panic seizing his chest, smacked him upside the head with a nearby scroll for not telling her, and rode him into oblivion for several hours. In that order.

               He spilled inside her for the first time, a decision that seemed rash and yet a long time coming all at once. Before he could overthink it, Lydia fixed her green eyes upon him and asserted, without any prompting, that he wasn’t alone, that he had _her_ , and together, they could make whatever sort of family they wanted.    

* * *

               The exclusivity of noble and courtier social circles kept Allison close to him.   

               Throughout the satrapies, but especially in the capital, the name, Gerard, persisted in infamy. A lasting reminder to the noble families that their wealth and prestige did not make them invincible to downfall or immune from punishment.

               The former satrap had been appointed during the reign of Stiles’ grandfather, an equally treacherous and hateful man. Untouchable until King Elias succumbed to a mental illness that left him confused, forgetful, and bedridden in his later years and led to his son’s succession.

               One of King Noah’s first decisions had been to remove Gerard from power and try him for decades’ worth of tribute pilfering, bribery, rape, and murder. Based upon the severity and quantity of the satrap’s crimes, the _dayyānu_ sentenced him to death, and in the ensuing public shame and disgrace, his unstable daughter by marriage, Victoria, killed herself. Stiles knew his father truly regretted that consequence, as it left Gerard’s son, Chris, without a wife and his baby daughter, Allison, without a mother.

               Executions were not common practice during King Noah’s reign, and the execution of a prominent member of a great house had not occurred in generations. It left an impression.

               Chris rebuilt his family’s reputation with years of just and wise governance, but dishonor left a lasting stain. The other nobles shunned Chris in all but name, the prime exception being Natalie, who proved a steadfast ally at palace events and urged Lydia to do the same for Allison.

               Stiles’ father ensured that he, too, accompanied Allison whenever the other children ignored her. As an acquaintance, Allison inspired a superficial liking. She had always been kind in his presence, with a sweet smile that provoked even lovelier dimples, but neither of them had been invested enough in each other to initiate a proper friendship. Despite the details of her family’s ruin circulating amongst the gossips, she, for the most part, remained a stranger to him.

               Still, he had always sensed a kindredship between them. A chasm of untapped potential separating them. The older they grew, the more impossible it seemed that they weren’t more to one another. They both belonged to powerful, ruling families, suffered monstrous grandfathers, and endured the heartrending tragedies of mothers who died too young and honorable, loving fathers who perished too soon.

               Chris had approached parenthood with the same mindset as Stiles’ own father; Stiles only had to witness him and Allison together to notice. Rather than begrudge their children the love they never received from their own fathers, both men had made up for it twice over.

               He knew that was why Chris’ death from illness—only weeks after his own father’s—pained him so. The men had been too alike in character, and he couldn’t help but treat Allison’s loss as if it were his own all over again.

               He allowed Allison the _proper time_ to mourn—no such thing existed, he knew—before summoning her to court. She appeared in a pleated robe, customary for the occasion but simpler than his own, unembroidered and dyed in yellow, green, and brown rather than the royal red, purple, and blue. The kohl couldn’t quite cover the bruises under her eyes from too much crying and not enough sleep. But she was beautiful, dark hair flipping and curling around her shoulders, strength housed in the firm line of her jaw. 

                He presented her with a series of options, doing his utmost not to phrase them as an ultimatum. They weren’t. She could inherit her father’s satrapy, remain a private noblewoman, or join his household.

               She looked at him through her long eyelashes, tucking hair behind her ear, a tearful grin spreading across her lips, receding, then growing again until it took hold—and, _oh,_ dimples.    

* * *

               Through the goodwill of his _viθa-patiš_, he found Scott.

               Aside from supplying monthly tallies of the larders, armories, and storehouses of the royal palaces, Deaton worked independently of him, managing the servants and daily minutiae of the household. Hence, when the man asked for a private audience one morning, Stiles took notice. 

               Ever since childhood, Deaton had unnerved him with his vague remarks and too-placid eyes and smooth expression that concealed underlying secrets, but the _viθa-patiš_ had served his father loyally for many years. Stiles wouldn’t discount that.

               Deaton begged permission to tell him a story. An unusual request, but Stiles expected no less from him. 

               One of the noble houses owned a _māniya_, common enough for a wealthy family. Since boyhood, the slave had served them, and the family was fond of him. Not enough to release him or treat him as an equal, of course. Just enough to afford him the best scraps. He was their beloved pet.

               Until one of the son’s stares began to linger on the slave boy. As children, their embraces had been innocent, but past the age of manhood, such affections were suggestive and meaningful.

               It didn’t matter that both son and slave refuted any and all claims of impropriety, that any indiscretion between them would bear no fruit. Nobles only married amongst one another, maintaining their highbred bloodlines. Soon enough, the son would be arranged to a nobleman’s daughter, and rumors of him consorting with a lowborn, foreigner thrall would not engender prospective matches.

               Scott’s long and valued service to the family kept him from being sold. Instead, the _māniya_ was gelded, his seed considered worthless to the upper tiers of society anyway. Mother and father agreed it served as a clear warning, but to erase any lingering temptation for their son, they removed Scott from the _bīrūnī_ altogether. His new condition allowed him to stand guard at the entrance to the _andarūn_ , where even men of the house rarely trespassed.

               Deaton neglected to mention _how_ he knew of the boy or his suffering. He simply thanked Stiles for his time and left without further comment.

               Stiles journeyed to the nobles’ home in person, feeling no remorse in this particular situation for using his kingly influence to procure what he desired. He would not be haggled with or refused, and his presence alone would impart his determination to his hosts.

               Distasteful as it was, he offered the father triple what he paid for Scott all those years ago, a generous sum as the _māniya_ had been mutilated, his overall and future health affected. He could have demanded Scott as a gift and saved himself the coin and moral revulsion, but, like it or not, favorable relations with the nobles were necessary for a productive and less tumultuous reign.

               Servants brought Scott to him, and upon seeing Stiles’ face, the slave’s dark eyes widened until they were ringed with white. He dropped to the floor in prostration, even though the movements must have pained him, still tender and freshly cut.

               The royal physician would care for him at the palace. Nourishing meals and plenty of rest. Infection would not claim him. By the grace of Ahuramazda, Scott would not only survive but flourish beside him.

* * *

               Derek came to him as a gift.

               Sent from Allison’s aunt, Kate, soon after her niece joined the royal household and left the seat of satrap vacant. The timing of Derek's arrival did not escape him.

               Satrapies tended to be kept within the same ruling family. Allison's declination meant that Kate was the only remaining, eligible relative to inherit the position.

               Branching into other noble houses wasn’t unheard of when heirs or competency were lacking. Stiles had been leaning on that very alternative, considering Danny, a son of one of the more understated great families. Humble, even-tempered, and able to ingratiate himself without trying. Meanwhile, at most, Kate stimulated a vague familiarity within him. He remembered a sister of Chris’ at court but couldn’t account for her disposition or reputation. From Allison, he only knew that the noblewoman ran the most esteemed silk den in her home satrapy.

               He didn’t wish to insult Kate or, for that matter, Allison by bypassing the aunt for a role almost guaranteed to her. If the sister was anything like her brother, she would be a fine choice. Undoubtedly, Deaton and the _hazāra-patiš_ , Parrish, would have opinions worthy of hearing, both close advisors of his father and long-standing members of the royal court.

               On his person, Derek carried a message from his mistress, alleging him to be the finest pleasure slave she ever had under her establishment’s tutelage. He was draped in the silks that gave the dens their namesake. A knee-length _sarapiš_ , belted at the waist with a _kamarband_, and _šaravāra_. All in rich, matching carmine to denote Derek’s completion of his training.

               Pleasure slaves entered the silk dens as children, sold or orphaned, and donned gold silks until they mastered their skills. The mystery surrounding the particulars of their training made them somewhat revered and absolutely sought-after. More refined and educated than prostitutes, more specialized in their services than courtesans. Like the latter, pleasure slaves moved among wealthy benefactors, who took the slaves home—sometimes, for weeks or months—and paid the den proprietor for the duration of their company. Between patrons, pleasure slaves returned to the dens where only the masters, mistresses, and trainees were permitted.

               Derek averted his eyes, hands clasped at his lower back, only speaking when addressed, only moving when required. His posture was precise, his responses ingrained from years of practice and preparation.

               Stiles wanted nothing more than to peel away each layer of professionality and finely-honed discipline and peer into Derek’s raw depths. How exquisite that would be. 

* * *

               Serendipity brought him to Isaac.

               On the way back from the races, the guards before him halted atop their horses. An obstacle in the street, he assumed. Perhaps a crossing cart or a snake that might spook the mounts.

               Instead, it was a boy, sprawled halfway into the lane. Bruised, bloodied, unconscious. Filthy and ragged, as if he had been lying in the street for hours on end. Bypassed. It was a wonder that he hadn’t yet been trampled. One of the royal bodyguards tapped the young man in the ribs with the butt of his _aršti_ to rouse him, but he proved unsuccessful.

               Before they swept the boy into the gutter to clear the path, Stiles dismounted. At his behest, the guards receded, permitting Derek to scoop the boy into his capable arms and carry him back to the _raθa_ he shared with Scott. Unlike Stiles and his noble ladies, neither had learned to ride horseback, their upbringings and livelihoods preventing it. A small blessing in disguise, otherwise the boy would’ve been tied to a horse or hauled by a none-too-keen guard back to the palace.

               The physician held his tongue, but the initial, long-suffering look he gave Isaac communicated his thoughts quite clearly to Stiles. _How many more strays are you going to bring me?_ He tended to the boy, wiping kohl and rose oil from his skin and the tacky traces of a man from between his legs. A prostitute, then, as Stiles expected based upon the part of the city in which he was discovered. A large number of brothels were clustered in that region.

               Aside from livid bruises and a split lip, Isaac’s health appeared stable. He slept for a day, the heavy sleep of the worn-down and the utterly exhausted. Upon waking, the boy was skittish, unsettled, and terrified, despite continuous and gentle reassurances of his safety. He answered Stiles’ questions not out of willingness or even loyalty but out of fear alone. He feared Stiles’ displeasure more than spilling the most degrading and dismal details of his past.

               Stiles didn’t relish prying, but he needed to know whether Isaac had a family or loved ones to rejoin. Someone had to be missing the boy.

               Whether the life waiting for Isaac was one to which he wanted to return—well, Stiles had his suspicions. Isaac’s fleeting glances, the forced endurance of touch that comes from unrelentingly unwanted contact, the silent horror on his face when the physician informed him he had been cleaned, mended, and redressed while he was unconscious.

               Isaac did work in a brothel, _his father’s_ , to be exact. Not that familiarity with the proprietor garnered him any special treatment. Isaac replaced his older brother after a fatal accident, and the only good that came of it was that the beatings diminished now that he was earning for his father. After all, Isaac had to stay beautiful in order for the man to wring as many good whoring years out of his son as possible.

               However, punishment had to be dispensed when a patron was dissatisfied; that risked money being lost. Such explained Isaac’s current injuries. He had fled the brothel to evade his father’s rage for a few hours when he passed out in the street. 

               Stiles asked him one last question, blood afire with fury and indignation, face tranquil and unthreatening.

               Isaac accepted on one condition. 

* * *

               Love led him to Erica.

               Isaac’s love. A love so similar to the one Stiles held for Lydia that he immediately understood he could never hope to keep him without her.

               He knew that Isaac feared Erica would take his beatings if he didn’t return and left her there. It would be the only way for the father to hurt the son one last time.

               With Isaac’s instruction, Stiles found the brothel easily. He had asked the boy whether he wanted to come along, to say a final goodbye to his father. Despite Stiles’ utter contempt for the man, he wouldn’t deny Isaac the chance for a clean break, a semblance of closure. To his relief, Isaac refused.

               He collected Erica in person, inevitably attracting the attention of Isaac’s father, the overseer of any and all business concerning the brothel. The man’s mouth rested in a cruel sneer, his eyes full of a calmness totally antithetical to Deaton’s. They were dead, uncaring eyes.

               After the prostration and the pouring of compliments and honorifics at his feet, Stiles found himself buying yet another human being. Something he never imagined doing once, let alone twice.

               But he would rather compensate Isaac’s father than take two of his workers and leave him empty-handed but for his wrath, which he would only further inflict upon the girls and boys under his roof. Stiles clung to that reasoning for perseverance; it was the only remedy for his roiling gut.

               With the coin he traded to Isaac’s father, he reserved a room for himself and Erica, to offer explanation and assuage any worry. He told Erica that Isaac sent for her, that he was well-cared for and waiting.

               Her smile was tinged with a sadness he didn’t understand at first. Isaac hadn’t disclosed her condition to Stiles, to protect her, and she knew it. Erica begged mercy for her friend’s well-intentioned deceit and confessed, thinking it better to be left behind now than cast out later.

               Her parents disowned her at the age of thirteen, after her first fit. The Greeks still called it the sacred disease, a possession by spirits, a divine affliction. She went to the only place that would take her without reservation, feed her, and give her shelter. A brothel whore was far safer than a street whore.           

               Stiles held her hand, nearly euphoric that the girl wasn’t dying of some terminal illness. It was only fits. He informed her that he, too, experienced attacks, though of a different nature. He was managing them, and if she agreed to leave with him, he could offer her whatever care she required to manage hers.  

               The pair of them met a pacing Isaac in the courtyard that adjoined the _dālān_. It was the first time Stiles ever saw him smile.

* * *

               Malia invited herself.

               She was an entertainer who performed at the first banquet of his rule. Deaton, who approved all arrangements for such events, heard about her from the wealthy families that had hired her in the past. Their recommendations were lukewarm and mixed. All agreed that she was talented, especially for someone untrained in her craft, but lowbred and uncouth.               

               The last critique, they believed, was a product of her upbringing. Malia lost her mother and younger sister early in life, leaving her father to raise her by himself. The lack of a female influence supposedly gave rise to her rough manners and blunt speech.   

               What those families believed to be insults and flaws, Stiles regarded as compliments—nearly _virtues_. He found Malia bold and tactless, though not purposefully insensitive or hurtful. She said what she felt and asked for what she wanted. She wasted no time on contrived dramatics or needless games, and it was beyond _refreshing_ amidst a crowd of nobles and courtiers.

               Surely, that attitude damaged her livelihood and incurred malicious gossip, but Malia didn’t know how to be someone else. She was feminine but absolutely unladylike. He loved that about her.

                Hopefully the first sighting of his harem would offer enough intrigue to tide over the court vultures and spare the girl from their nasty whispers. Although, how they could even string words together as she performed was confounding.

               She was unignorable.  

               Malia danced barefoot in a sheer, pleated skirt split down the sides and a matching strip of fabric banded opaque around her breasts. An outfit of practicality, that encouraged full mobility. She spun and leapt and flipped, her body moving in impossible, fluid ways, seemingly without either weight or bones.

               She caught—and kept—more than one of their gazes that evening. Late into the festivities, Malia approached the dais to offer a private encore for the _Xšâyathiya Xšâyathiyânâm_ and his paramours. Hands folded atop her rounded belly, Lydia only needed to arch a coppery brow in his direction to assure that if Stiles didn’t accept, she would on his behalf.

               After the banquet, guards escorted Malia to the entrance of the _andarūn_ but went no further. She danced for him and his harem in one of the courtyards under the starry, night sky, moonlight slipping over her tan skin and long legs like silk. They nibbled at fruit and cheese, sipped wine, but left the lion’s share for her. She ate quickly, efficiently, like one unsure of her next meal, her hunger outweighing any shame.

               Beautiful, yes, beautiful, but up close, the ribs a bit too prominent, the arms worryingly twiggy, the knobs of backbone a tad too pronounced. The body beneath it might be wasting, but the costume was very fine, probably the most expensive item she owned, costly to maintain and replace. Skill only got a performer so far; appearance and reputation were _at least_ as important.

               To say goodbye, Malia knelt before him, kissed each of his lovers’ hands. She wanted to stay. She wanted the daily, human comforts of food and warmth and kindness. She wanted to belong, to be taken as she was.  

               She only made it halfway down the _dālān_ before Stiles caught her and led her back inside.

* * *

                A sympathetic stranger introduced him to Boyd.  

               One afternoon, a supplicant, a farmer, came to him about damage done to his crops, what he believed to be sabotage from his competing neighbor. They sold at the same market, and the farmer with the better yield made higher profits.

               The temple court had already heard the complaint, determined the perpetrator, and awarded compensation. The matter should’ve been put to rest. Except, according to the farmer, the wrong man had been convicted.

               The neighbor’s slave admitted to the destruction, a thinly veiled attempt by the neighbor to shift blame and avoid repayment. The court recognized the confession for what it was—a false and coerced testimony—but a direct statement of guilt couldn’t be ignored. They still ordered remuneration from the neighbor since Boyd was his property, his responsibility, but they left the manner of the slave’s punishment up to his master.  

               For years, the farmer had lived beside this neighbor and served as witness to the rough and merciless treatment of his slaves. Boyd was stoic and gentle for his impressive size, qualities that instigated his master to demean and ridicule him, to mistake him for being feeble and simpleminded. He was tied outside overnight, each night, to a fencepost, like cattle. Not permitted to share his owner’s house and not trusted to stay put.

               For that reason, the farmer was certain of Boyd’s innocence. His field had been vandalized under cover of darkness. 

               Only at this point in his retelling did the farmer address the essential nature of his appeal. He had seen his neighbor’s former slaves beaten and killed with little cause, and in Boyd’s case, the loss of a substantial amount of coin was no trivial matter. He feared the slave would meet a similar, grisly fate if Stiles didn’t intervene.

               Stiles promised to investigate the claims. Before taking any action, he verified the farmer’s story, first consulting Deaton who knew an astounding number of people not only within the capital but the entire empire and always gave fair counsel.     

               His _viθa-patiš was_ familiar with this neighboring farmer, one more of a vast number of things that Deaton inexplicably knew. He confirmed that the man was notoriously cruel to his slaves, judging by the talk ’round the flesh markets where he was a frequent customer. Furthermore, Deaton brought him the court records regarding the farmers’ dispute and found the details aligning with those his supplicant gave.

               Circumstances didn’t compel Stiles to pay for Boyd, which was fortunate because his conscience wouldn’t allow it. Gold wouldn’t sweeten the man’s temperament, wouldn’t spare any of his future slaves. No cure existed for a rotten soul. Stiles would risk embittering a lone, iniquitous farmer.

               He arrived on the farmer’s land after dawn. Boyd was still bound to his fencepost by the wrists, baking in the fierce, morning heat. Long scars of whip marks crisscrossed his broad back, and flies settled on his glistening skin to drink his sweat. Stiles couldn’t decide whether Boyd’s master had risen late that morning or simply intended to leave his slave there to die of thirst.

               Stiles demanded water while he cut Boyd free, and when he lifted the man’s heavy, bowed head to help him drink, he saw that a hoop had been pierced through the septum of the slave’s nose. Like a bull.

               In parting, Stiles made no remark about the farmer’s deplorable, inhumane conduct but did mention that should the man land in court again, he would find the king sitting as a guest on his judicial panel. 

* * *

               Kira retired from the court to the harem.

               She accompanied nobles, satraps, and other persons of wealth and power. As a courtesan, she dealt in entertainment and charm and pleasure. Coin did not change hands as it would with a prostitute, and her benefactors supported her lifestyle and assumed her expenses. Essentially, they paid for her refinement and impeccable breeding.

               Kira’s chosen art was music. Stiles had never heard her sing, but he had seen her on the arm of a few prominent men and women at palace events.

               Oddly enough, Derek was the one who pointed her out at a gathering for the _yāirya ratavō_. They were friendly acquaintances that had met several times over the years at parties, serving as escorts and companions. Apparently a good deal of overlap existed between procurers of pleasure slaves and courtesans.

               She had been passed among patrons of all ages, demeanors, and preferences since the age of twelve and yearned for stability, consistency, autonomy. But, without money being exchanged, she remained wholly dependent upon them. The alternative— _leaving—_ didn’t bear thinking about. Disgraced or unwanted courtesans typically drifted towards one occupation: prostitution. Similar expectations but a severely lower quality of life.

               Kira was sweet and pretty and talented. Most likely, another patron was already in line, waiting for her current contract to expire.

               Fortunately, exceptions could always be made for a king.


End file.
